


Lucky Starr and the Poisonous Planetoids

by Kahvi



Category: Lucky Starr - Isaac Asimov
Genre: Case Fic, M/M, Period-Typical Sexism, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-20 09:03:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17019771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kahvi/pseuds/Kahvi
Summary: When the colonization efforts on Pluto and Charon are threatened by unseen forces, Lucky and Bigman are sent to investigate. But can they find out what is really going on before whatever is killing the colonists ends up killing them, too?





	Lucky Starr and the Poisonous Planetoids

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Roadstergal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roadstergal/gifts).



“I gotta say,” Bigman groused, staring out of the Shooting Starr’s tiny observation window, “that is the the most boring planet I have ever had the displeasure of orbiting.”

“You’re wrong there,” Lucky said, in that infuriating way of his. Why, if you didn’t know him as well as Bigman did, you’d be certain he was trying to poke fun. “On two counts.”

“Oh yeah?” Bigman waited for the punchline.

“For one, we’re not in orbit yet. For another, that’s not a planet.”

Bigman grimaced. Of course Lucky was right; he was always right. Not just 'boy, you sure were right this time' right, but right in the way the sun was the center of the solar system right. Though it always made Bigman feel awed and impressed, it also filled him with a sort of useless energy - if there had been something he could safely throw at Lucky, Bigman almost felt like he might. Not that he could have, of course, inside the ship’s life-preserving walls. Even the smallest hull breach or instrument interference could spell danger or at worst, death. As a Martian, Bigman well knew the importance of proper respect for life support systems and artificial environments. And... it was _Lucky_. You couldn't get intimidated by the sun. “Come on.” He rolled his eyes. “Everyone knows Pluto isn’t a planet. It was just a figure of speech, is all.”

“We’re scientists, Bigman. We have to favor accuracy.”

“Oh, go favor your-”

“Shooting Starr, you are cleared for docking,” the console chirped.

“Roger that, Charon VI. Shooting Starr initiating docking procedures.”

“It’s a dwarf planet,” Bigman muttered, while Lucky set the ship to auto-dock. “Honestly, Lucky. I had the same schooling as you, you know.” Not remotely, but Bigman wasn't going to admit it. When Lucky didn’t answer, he looked back out the window. On second glance, it actually improved. There was a lot of grey, sure, and nothing near as interesting to look at as a on proper, colonized world, with their lights and space-visible buildings and orbital traffic, but Bigman could appreciate the beauty of a desert. He was still staring, lost in thought, when Lucky nudged him and told him they were docked and ready to disembark.

 

* * *

 

 

The Charon VI was much like any other orbital research station Bigman had been to, and over the years he’d worked with Lucky, that amounted to quite a few. A lot of research was safer or easier to do in orbit, and with outpost worlds like Pluto and Sharon, the pioneering teams required their own share of scientific staff. It was to the offices of one of the latter that Lucky and Bigman were headed, though Bigman had a little detour planned.

“We’ll be passing by the cafeteria,” he mentioned innocently, as they followed the glowing sigils in the floor.

“You can’t possibly be hungry again,” Lucky chided. Bigman, whose metabolism was far higher than his frame would make you think, resented the implication.

“We’ve had nothing but yeast for weeks! I swear; if I have one more zymoburger I’ll start sweating the stuff.”

“Yeast is good for you. It’s scientifically tailored to meet all your nutritional needs.”

The nutritional needs of an Earth-man, maybe. Weak, pasty cobbers, the lot of them, Lucky excluded, of course. “What about my gastronomical needs? Sometimes a man just has to taste something real, you know?”

“Yeast _is_ real.”

“You know what I mean! They grow the stuff in vats." Bigman's nose wrinkled. "It’s mass produced with no thought to flavor, color or-”

“Not so. Thousands, if not millions of nutritionists spend-” Bigman grabbed his arm and held firm. Lucky was the stronger of the two, if by a narrow margin, but the shorter man had the element of surprise. When Lucky stopped, blinking in confusion, Bigman jabbed a finger towards the brightly lit mess hall up ahead.

“There! Smell that, then keep on waxing poetic about yeast. I dare ya!”

And Lucky did hesitate. His serious brown eyes narrowed for a moment, then closed, like he was lost to some half-forgotten memory. Bigman didn’t blame him; the smell of freshly baked bread would do that to you.

“See?” Bigman crossed his arms. “Yeast is perfectly fine, for what it is. But don’t tell me you don’t miss that.”

Whatever reverie had caught Lucky short, this snapped him out of it. “There’s yeast in bread,” he said, as evenly as ever, and Bigman threw his hands up in defeat.

And yet… it seemed to Bigman that as they began to walk again, the other man had a different look to him.

 

* * *

 

 

The office of Doctor Berg, the station manager, was certainly impressive. The entire back wall was made up of window-like viewscreens, showing the milky-grey vista of Charon, or possibly Pluto. What was displayed had little to do with what was actually outside the hull, though in Bigman’s experience, a lot of station-dwellers were traditionalists, who liked their windows to be just that, not local movie theaters. However, what commanded attention far more than the view, or the sleek, modern furniture, was Doctor Berg himself. Or rather, _her_ self. Her hand was outstretched, and Lucky had to jab Bigman with his elbow for the latter to come to his senses and actually accept the greeting.

“Gentlemen.” She smiled. “Don’t worry, I’ve seen and heard it all. I’m well aware of what a rarity I am, so your surprise is expected, and no offense taken.”

“Glad to hear it, Doctor.” Lucky, unlike Bigman, had shaken her hand immediately and firmly. She beamed at him. Bigman took an instant dislike to her that he couldn’t quite explain. “I was pleased to hear of your appointment.”

“News travels fast.”

“Within the Council of Science, at least.” Lucky smiled back at her. He certainly didn’t seem to have any reservations. “It’s high time women were allowed out on the frontier.”

Doctor Berg shrugged. “I trained as a psychologist, and as such I understand the motivation for the ban; crews of mixed genders can lead to unwanted consequences, both in terms of population control and,” she added, delicately, “interpersonal conflict.”

“And yet,” Lucky countered, “it means that many of our best and brightest are stuck on Earth, leaving a mediocre contingent to deal with the efforts of expanding Earth’s interests. If we’re going to hold our own against the Sirians, we can’t keep fighting with one arm tied behind our back.” His eyes were glowing. Bigman tried not to stare. He rarely saw Lucky so engaged. Then again, how often did he see Lucky with a woman? Doctor Berg was tall, nearly Lucky’s height, with white-blonde hair in a tight ponytail and sparkling blue eyes, so pale they seemed to glow in the soft light. In a word, he thought, she was beautiful.

“Well,” Doctor Berg smiled politely. “You’re not here to discuss space exploration politics.”

“Actually,” Lucky sat down when she indicated he may, Bigman following, “that’s a point I was hoping you might clarify. All I was told by the Council was that there had been difficulties with the colonization efforts.”

She nodded. “Yes, that’s putting it mildly. We currently have three outposts on Pluto, four stations in orbit, and three stations in orbit around Charon, including this one. A year ago, we had a crew of fifty on each station, and twice as many at each outpost. Today, less than a third are left. All the other orbitals are left unmanned, and we’re running on a skeleton crew.”

“I see.” Lucky made a note on the pad he’d brought with him. “Morale is low, presumably.”

“Of course. But that’s the effect, not the cause.”

“I see.” He made a further note. “And what do you suspect the cause might be?”

“Oh, we’re well aware of the cause.”

Lucky glanced briefly at Bigman. “So, what is it?”

“Poision.”

 

* * *

 

“A whole greenhouse in space.” Bigman whistled. Doctor Berg stood in the doorway, her considerable size preventing either Bigman or Lucky from entering. Above her shoulders and to the side of her, Bigman could glimpse yellow stalks, tall, brown trunks, and rows of plasticrete poles holding up green vines. “Sands of Mars!”

“Far more efficient than anything Mars can provide,” Doctor Berg corrected him.

“Figure of speech,” Bigman grumbled. As though she'd ever seen Mars. Not, he thought with a twinge of guilt, that this was her fault. But still!

“Even so,” Lucky interjected, “you cannot hope to feed the entire station, much less an entire colony on this.”

“Not just this. There are greenhouses on every station, and several on the outposts.”

“It can’t be very cost efficient.”

“It isn’t meant to be. The fresh produce is an incentive; something to improve morale on long stretches away from civilization.” She shut the door, forcing Bigman to jump back to avoid getting caught in it. “But in time, we hope to be entirely self sufficient.”

Despite himself, Bigman couldn’t help give a little inner whoop of triumph. So much for Lucky’s fine speeches on the value of yeast! The future was _real_ produce. Growing things that you could _taste_ and _smell_ and _feel_. Predictably, Lucky didn’t look happy.

“And you suspect that someone has been poisoning it?”

“I’m afraid it’s the only thing that makes sense.”

Lucky turned towards her, sharply. “Does it? Who would benefit from poisoning a colonization crew?”

Good question, Bigman thought. Maybe that joke about Sirian spies hadn’t been a throwaway thing.

"Not all of them," Doctor Berg hesitated. "There were just a few cases, to start with. Nothing serious; we assumed it was food poisoning, or digestive issues caused by adaptation to a new environment. Nothing could be conclusively proven. But then more and more people fell ill, and eventually..."

"Even the healthy left," Lucky guessed.

"Yes. And getting new hires became more and more difficult. Right now, we're desperate enough to take anyone who applies, though we screen them, of course. In fact, that's my job, in part." Doctor Berg sighed. “This is why I felt the need to contact the Council directly. We have our own forensic constabulary, of course, but given that the poisoner would have had to have access to some, if not all of our food stores, I’m afraid we can’t trust anyone on staff.”

Bigman’s eyes widened. “An inside job!”

“Or,” Doctor Berg added, “infiltration. Even though all new hires are carefully screened and psych-evaled, there are elements for which we cannot screen. I’m sure you’re aware of the rising popularity of the so-called Medievalists?”

Lucky nodded, grimly. “All too well." As did Bigman. What had begun as a harmless hobbyist group, wishing to return to what they deem the more simpler times of the second millennium, had over time turned to violent protests and discontent everywhere from Earth to the asteroids. They strongly oppose the Council of Science; about the only group who openly did. That, in itself, made them dangerous.

“It makes no sense to me,” Bigman groused. “Why would anyone want to live in a world without modern medicine or technology? Imagine having to use a knife to shave!”

“They had machines for that, even then. Not that you’d need it,” Lucky added, under his breath. It looked to Bigman as though he enjoyed the way Bigman fumed as a result.

“At any rate,” Doctor Berg continued, a little reproachfully, “we strongly suspect there is a Medievalist presence among the colonists, or even staff. And, of course, that line is often blurred. Certainly these days.”

“I can see the Medievalists attempting to poison the yeast supply,” Lucky mused. They were strongly against the use of what they determined to be modern foods, that had been ‘tampered with’. “But why the supply from the greenhouses?”

“It could be either. We have yet to actually detect poison anywhere; all we have to go on are the symptoms of the affected colonists and staff. Thankfully, none have died yet, but as you can imagine, it has greatly affected our recruitment efforts. We’ve tried to keep a low profile, but this sort of thing will out.”

“So you’d like us to ferret out the Medievalists? See if there are any on board?”

“This,” Doctor Berg held up a finger, “is where it gets complicated, I’m afraid.”

More complicated? Bigman perked up.

“There are the Medievalists, and their sympathizers," she ticked them off on her fingers, "and then, of course, you have those who oppose them.”

“But wouldn’t any scientist oppose the Medievalists?” Hell, Bigman thought, any right thinking man would.

“Yes, but there are degrees. Tempers are running higher as morale lowers. I’m afraid it’s within the realm of possibility that someone opposing the Medievalists may have poisoned our greenhouse stock just to prove a point.” She glanced back at the closed, heavy doors.

“Begging your pardon,” Lucky said, “but what exactly is it you’d like us to do?”

“Find the truth,” Doctor Berg said, simply. “Before uncertainty kills us.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Just what did she mean by that,” Bigman grumbled, “ _find the truth_.” He picked up an oblong piece of pastry from his tray, and examined it like it was a witness to the crimes. It was warm, almost hot, right from the oven. Lucky had sat them both down for a nice dinner, and Bigman more than appreciated it, but he was on edge.

“Just what she said. Talk to the people on the station, on the outposts; figure out what’s going on.”

“But anything could be going on! Or nothing at all!”

“People have nearly died,” Lucky chided. “This is not a matter to be taken lightly.”

“I’m sorry.” Bigman tasted the crescent. It was surprisingly flaky, and melted like butter in his mouth. “Gosh, this is tasty. Here, you try yours!” He nudged at Lucky’s tray, and the latter picked up his own with a smile. “I suppose I just don’t know where to start, you know?”

“We already have started.”

“What do you mean?” Bigman froze, mid-chew.

“Here!” Lucky gestured to the cafeteria. Bigman followed the sweep of his hand. It was a nice enough looking place, for a research station chow room. A set of long view-screens ran along the side wall, the other end being open to the corridor. Food was ordered from a window set on the far wall, and each table had a menu embedded on its clear, plastic surface. The one on their table flickered slightly. Bigman poked it with his fingers, and it frizzled away into nothingness. “See,” Lucky exclaimed, “there. That shouldn’t be happening. They’re clearly short-staffed, if no one is looking after the power levels.”

“We know that already.”

“Yes," Lucky leaned in closer, "but now we see the results.”

Bigman turned his head. Around them, the same thing was happening to several of the other tables. Diners were swearing, thumping the table, and some had started bickering; among themselves, with the staff. One or two were waving plastic cutlery like makeshift swords.

“It takes so little,” Lucky said, sadly. “Just remove a few creature comforts, unsettle one minor thing, and tempers rise.”

“Or poison the food supply.”

Lucky didn’t comment. Bigman supposed he didn’t have to.

 

* * *

 

 

Bigman ran across the field of ice as fast as his short legs could take him. No matter how hard he tried, his feet kept slipping from under him, not catching properly.

“The skates,” Lucky yelled, up ahead, “remember the skates.”

What a thing to say! The skates were the problem. Bigman was used to sand and wind, not cold and ice, and certainly not strapping sharp metal blades to your feet and sliding around on them. The technician who had suited him up had told him it was just like skiing, and wasn’t that a laugh. Like Bigman had ever seen snow before he came to Earth with Lucky, and then only at a safe distance. Grunting, Bigman forced his way closer, inch by slippery inch.

“It’ll be harder on the surface, with full suits and helmets!”

“I know it’ll be harder, you big, sand-blasted lug!” Bigman gave it his all, whooping as he saw the finish line nearing, Lucky already behind it, waving tauntingly. He got closer and closer and then, just as he was looking up to give a thumbs-up, his left foot slipped a little too far as it took its turn, twisting his entire leg sideways and throwing him down on the ice. He seemed to slide forever, Lucky’s laughter ringing in his ears, until the safety bars at the edge of the field caught him.

Adams, the man running the training rink, hurried over, turning the ice off with the press of the button. Suddenly, Bigman was lying on solid ground. “Don’t worry,” Adams said, and unlike Lucky, Bigman noted, he wasn’t laughing. “Everyone messes up the first time. It’s a new skill; you won’t learn it in a day.”

“He’ll have to learn in a day,” Lucky chipped in, “or he won’t be much use on the surface. We’re going down there tomorrow.”  
  
“Oh,” Adams waved his hands. “Absolutely no way. He’s not ready.”

Bigman grunted. Why did it have to be an ice planet! All right, before he said it out loud and made even more of a fool of himself; an ice _dwarf_ planet. Nitrogen ice, sure, but same difference. “I can make it.”

Adams shook his head. “That’s up to me. It’s my job to make sure anyone who goes down there can handle themselves on the ice. And that takes time.”

“I picked it up easily enough.” Lucky strapped of his skates, examining them.

“Yeah, but you said you’d done it before, on regular ice. That makes it a lot easier.”

Easier. Everything was easier, for Lucky. Bigman pulled his skates off and put them back in the depository. “Oh, what’s the use. Lucky will just have to go on his own.” Not looking back, he put his regular, Martian boots on; the sombre grey ones with the navy trim and dark purple swirls, and stomped out of the training room. If Lucky called after him, he was sure he wasn’t listening.

 

* * *

 

“Bigman… can I come in?”

“Suit yourself, it's your own room.” Bigman sat on the room’s single bed, staring out the view-screen. Of course there was only one bed and one room, for the two of them. Everyone assumed, because why wouldn’t they? They were two men living and working together in space; they should take comfort in one another, as men did. Nothing to be talked about. Just done.

Except they didn’t. And that, right now, was just one more reminder of the many ways in which Bigman did not fit into Lucky’s life. He was too small, too dumb, too brash and too… much to be of any use. Why did Lucky keep him around?

When the door opened, Bigman looked away. He still did, when Lucky sat down on the bed next to him, and pointed out the viewscreen. “See that?”

“Been looking at it since I got here. It’s Pluto and Charon.” What of it?

“You know," Lucky settled his hands in his lap, looking down at them, "Pluto and Charon are sometimes considered a binary system because the barycenter of their orbits does not lie within either body.”

“Is that a fact?” Bigman had no idea what a barycenter was.

“Sure is. When the two bodies are of similar masses, the barycenter will generally be located between them and both bodies will follow an orbit around it.” Lucky smiled quickly before looking down again. “They orbit one another.”

Bigman narrowed his eyes. Looking at the two objects, it was hard to imagine. They were just… there. “A binary system.”

“Yes, exactly. Like I said.”

“But one of them’s a moon,” Bigman protested.

“Yes, but which one?”

Bigman turned to face him. “What?”

“Could be either one.” Lucky shrugged. “Depends on how you define it. Now, me, I like to think of them both as one another’s moons.”

“That’s… that’s one way of looking at it.” Bigman swallowed. Lucky was awful close. He started as something touched his hand. It was Lucky’s hand. He stared at it.

“You’re important to me. You’re my friend. You help me think, and you take me out of myself. Don’t ever think you’re not important to me; that you’re not useful.”

Bigman made the mistake of looking into Lucky’s eyes. They were like heavenly bodies themselves, drawing him in. Like… Bigman pulled back, sharply. Men didn’t kiss. Lucky wouldn’t want that!

They sat, frozen, for a moment. Lucky’s eyes were still on Bigman’s, half-closed now. “It’s all right,” he said, calm as ever. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Sure, Lucky.” Their hands were still touching.

“Well.” Lucky cleared his throat, and when he spoke again, both his face and voice was just like normal. Flat. Handsome in the way a bookfilm-star was. “How about I go down to the surface by myself, and talk to the colonists there? Then you can talk to the key personnel up here, and we compare notes?”

They had lost something, hadn't they, in that moment? Bigman did his best to smile, anyway. “That’s a swell idea.”

“Good.” Lucky squeezed his hand. And before Bigman could think any more of it, Lucky had left the room.

 

* * *

 

The yeast vats were just smaller versions of the ones Bigman had seen elsewhere. The smell, however, was exactly the same. In a room this size, it was almost unbearable. What Bigman wouldn’t do for a Martian breathing mask! Still, Lucky had given him this task, and he would do it properly. He carefully schooled his face to neutral, before holding his hand out to the head yeast technician, a white-haired man in a dark blue uniform. “Pleasure to meet you,” he said, measuredly. “Bigman Jones, from the Council of Science. Routine colony inspection. I was wondering if you could answer a few questions?”

The technician laughed, and shook his hand with a surprisingly powerful grip. “Bless you, son. You don’t have to pretend. I was afraid your face might fall off, from all that you’re holding back. I know what this place smells like.”

Bigman sighed. “I’m sorry. It’s just-”

“Overpowering! Not that I'd know it. Lost my sense of smell when I was seventeen, so it don’t bother me none. Guess it makes me perfect for the job.” He grinned. “Paulsen is the name. I’ve been a yeast tech my whole life.”

“Do you enjoy it?” Bigman tried not to grimace. Despite what Paulsen had said, it just seemed impolite.

Paulsen laughed again. “What’s to enjoy about it? It’s a job. Now,” he pointed at the tiny viewscreen behind them. “That there. That’s something to enjoy. Nature. The beauty of something natural.”

“So you’ll be joining the colony?”

“Me? Nah. I’m too old." He shook his head. "Being up here though, helping the people who set it all up? That’s the next best thing, in my book.”

What a nice old feller. Bigman felt a bit embarrassed questioning him like this, but he had a job to do. “The poisonings don’t bother you?”

“Oh, that?” Paulsen waved it away. “Listen, between you and me… I’ve never trusted yeast.”

Bigman’s eyes widened. “You’ve never trusted yeast? But you’re a yeast technician.”

“Yes, and that’s why I don’t trust it. I’ve seen what goes into it, and I’m telling you, it’s not natural.”

That was exactly what Bigman thought! “What makes you say that?”

“It’s too processed, by half! Look here!” He waved Bigman over to another part of the room, where the yeast mash was processed. “Enrichment, they call it.” Paulsen made a face. “Well, I ask you; if you have to add a bunch of extras to a thing in order to eat it, that means there’s nothing of value in it to begin with, doesn’t it?”

Bigman hesitated. You added spices and things when you were cooking, didn’t you? “I suppose not.”

“Take something like an apple. Don’t need to add anything to it; it’s fine the way it is. Ready to eat.”

The man had a point. “So you agree with the Medievalists? That we should be eating real food?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t go that far! Science has brought us to where we are today. My mother got cancer when I was little, and I don’t like to think what might have happened if we lived back when they didn’t have an easy cure. And when I come of age, I got inoculated for it. Health, wealth and prosperity, that's nothing to sneeze at. Science brought us into space!” He looked up at the viewscreen again, sighing. “Just look at that.”

“But…” Bigman tried to make sense of what he was hearing, “you’re not worried about getting poisoned?”

“That’s what I’m saying,” Paulsen knocked on the vat, “there’s no poison! Yeast is tricky. Sometimes, it goes wrong. No one died, did they?”

“No.” Thankfully not. Yet, at any rate.

“There you go. It’s the yeast. They didn’t find anything because you can’t tell, with yeast. That's why it’s not good for you, in the long run. I try not to eat too much of it.” He winked, picking an apple from his pocket and taking a nice, big bite.

“Thank you for your time,” Bigman told him. He had a lot to mull over, and not a lot of time in which to do it.

* * *

 

 

“Hey, farmboy!”

Bigman turned, sharply. Only a Martian would use that term. A pale, tall man in an engineer’s uniform was jogging towards him, grim-faced. His hair was so red it nearly matched the color of his flushed face. “What,” Bigman asked, stretching to his full height and crossing his arms.

“I hear you’ve been going around asking questions," the man said, not budging one inch.

“Who’s asking?”

The man leaned down, getting in Bigman’s face. Bigman didn’t so much as flinch. “Questions about Medievalists.”

“So what if I have?”

“It’s a free system,” the man grunted, not stepping back. “A man has the right to believe what he wants.”

“So long as it brings no harm to others, through action or inaction, yes.” Bigman knew the law. This cobber had better not test him.

“Well, there’s a fair bit of inaction going on right here, on this station.”

“That’s a bold statement.”

“It’s the truth.” The engineer looked around, then motioned for Bigman to follow him down a side-corridor. Well, if he tried anything, Bigman could take him. With some reluctance, he followed. “All right,” he said, as they huddled in a quiet corner. “Speak up.”

“Look. I’m a Martian, just like you. Used to work on the farms.”

Bigman squinted at him. “Oh yeah? Then where are your boots?”

“Regulation uniform.” The man had the decency to look embarrassed. Maybe Bigman could trust him, after all. “Never mind all that; my point is, I know produce. And what they’re making on this station…” He shook his head, grimly. “It’s not right.”

“Not right?” Bigman took out his pad, ready to take notes. “In what way?”

“You’re a farmboy; you know what I mean. You can tell when something is off, and when it’s not.”

“Maybe.” Normally, yes, but as his fateful meeting with Lucky had shown him, there were more than one way to ruin a crop. Some that even farmboys would never notice.

“Well, I’ve been getting real marplums every week. It takes more ration chits that yeast-fruit, but it reminds me of home.”

Bigman nodded for him to continue, tough at the back of his mind he thought: marplums! I haven’t had those in years. Maybe he should go see if there were any left, later?

“And lately, I’ve started noticing, they’re not all the same. I don’t mean like how real fruit is supposed to be; I know it’s not like that artificial stuff they pour into a mold, but sometimes, they seem just a little off.”

“Have you told anyone about this?”

The man shrugged. “Who can you trust, these days? We keep hearing about people getting sick, and just last week, my-”

A sharp klaxxon rang out, followed by the sound of running feet. Bigman turned to see the only three forensic constables left on the station hurrying past.

“It’s coming from the cafeteria,” the engineer yelled. “Someone must have been poisoned again!”

 

* * *

 

 

A man lay sprawled on the ground beside the ordering window, through which a crewman in a white paper hat was hanging, mouth agape. “I didn’t do anything; I swear! I didn’t serve him anything!”

Bigman skidded to a halt just as the knocked out man started stirring, and breathed a sigh of relief. At least he wasn’t dead! The constables were milling about asking questions to an increasingly irate group of onlookers. No one, predictably, had seen or heard anything.

“Hey,” someone yelled, as the dazed man sat up, “he’s bleeding!”

He was, Bigman saw, blood running from his mouth, down his chin and dripping from his jaw. One of the men nearest to Bigman, a clean-shaven, scrawny man with dark, lanky hair, started looking nervously towards the exit. Nonchalantly, Bigman stepped in front of it.

“Wait…” the bleeding man got up, still disoriented. “Who decked me? Someone decked me!”

The constables’ attention turned immediately, but the lanky-haired fellow still tried to make a break for it. Bigman was on him in seconds, throwing him to the ground. At once, a constable was there to synth-cuff him, linking his wrists and ankles together with molecular bonding. He writhed and cursed as Bigman got off him, knowing that breaking the molecular bond was impossible.

“All right,” grunted the constable, “talk. We’ll figure out what happened here anyway; we are a trained forensic team. But if you come clean, we won’t have to waste our time, and it’ll go easier on you.”

“That’s him,” the victim yelled. “That’s the guy who hit me! I was just getting dinner, and he ran right up to me and punched me in the face!”

“He was trying to poison me,” the scrawny man yelled back, “I saw him! He poured something over my tray just as I was leaving.”

“No! I was reaching for the salt. Just the salt!”

Before any of the constables could react, the onlookers started crowding around the bleeding man. There were murmurs of ‘poisoner’ and here and there a ‘get him’. There were only three constables, but the two not watching the suspect slowly reached for their stunners. “Settle down, everyone,” one of them said, but seconds later, the first punch was thrown. Soon, the entire room erupted in an all-out brawl.

Bigman, his back still to the exit, quietly left. For once, there was too much on his mind for him to have any energy left over for a fight. Thinking was more of a strain for him, than it was for Lucky.

 

* * *

 

 

“Anyway, that’s the gist of it.” Bigman sighed, forcing a smile at Lucky’s stoic face on the monitor. “I’ve interviewed most of the people who work in food production, the constabulary, and a handful of others. I suppose I’ll have a talk with those who who started that fight today, too. Once they wake up from their stun-nap, that is. How are things on your end?”

“I’m glad you asked.” Lucky smiled, the sort of smile reserved for when he was genuinely happy. Bigman straightened; maybe Lucky had cracked it!

“Well, don’t just sit there; tell me!”

“I’ve spoken to everyone here at the base, and I had about as much luck as you did. But then I spoke to the physician.” Lucky leaned in close, and Bigman, stupidly, did the same. Like they were standing in the same room, conspiring. “And what he told me gave me a hypothesis.” He paused. “Actually, it’s more than that. Given the evidence… I’m sure I’m right. Bigman, the poisonings are-”

The screen went dark. Bigman gasped. He thumped it, without thinking, then swore, and ran out the door and straight to engineering. “What’s wrong with the signal to the surface,” he yelled at the guy working there. It was the Martian he’d spoken with earlier, and he was not the mood for idle chat either.

“There’s nothing wrong with the signal to the surface,” he said, irritably.

“Then how come I lost contact?”

“I don’t know; maybe your comm-unit is on the fritz, or maybe someone cut the signal down there. How am I supposed to know?”

“A fat load of good you are,” Bigman grumbled, running back to the cabin. After turning the comms unit off and on again two or three times, then thumping it again, he gave up. The screen and the console turned on just fine, but there was no way to make the connection. Only when he had sat back down, and was about to bite into the marplum that he’d gotten right from the greenhouse, did the words of the engineer strike him:

_Maybe someone cut the signal down there_.

 

* * *

 

 

“Mr. Jones, I am a busy woman.” Doctor Berg glared at Bigman from across her huge, rectangular desk. “I have more than enough to deal with, without having to humor your paranoid delusions.”

“I’m telling you, Lucky found the poisoner! He’s right there, on the surface.”

“And what proof do you have of that?”

“He told me! He called me just now, but the signal was cut.”

Doctor Berg raised an eyebrow. “So he did not, in fact, tell you anything.”

“No. Yes!” Bigman yelled in frustration, leaning over the desk. “He was about to tell me. Don’t you see? They cut the signal because they knows he knows!”

“And these mysterious ‘they’ - to be clear - are the poisoners?”

“Yes!” It was all Bigman could do, not to jump across the desk and strangle her. “Don’t you get it? His life is in danger. He knows who they are!”

“If that were the case, clearly, Councilman Starr would have reported it directly to me.”

Bigman sank down into the chair. That… was a fair point. Wasn’t it? Unless… His eyes narrowed. “You’re right.”

Doctor Berg pursed her lips in surprise. As she was about to speak, Bigman interrupted:

“He would tell you. In fact-”

“Before you go on,” Doctor Berg interjected, “perhaps you’d care to look at the viewscreen? I believe that’s the shuttle on its way back, no doubt with Councilman Starr on it?”

Bigman looked up, sharply. Yes, there it was, the small surface to station shuttle, nearly at the docking port. “Sands of Mars,” he muttered.

“So I suggest we both save ourselves some time, and simply wait for-”

As they both watched, the shuttle veered sideways, spinning out of control. Bigman gasped. Doctor Berg picked up a microphone, and shouted orders Bigman didn’t catch. All his attention was on the tiny ship, as it struggled to right itself. “It’s going to crash!”

“Not if I can help it,” Doctor Berg muttered.

“The poisoners - they’re on board!” Bigman wasted no further time. Heart in his throat, he ran towards the docking bay. He had only gotten as far as a few feet away from Doctor Berg’s office, when the station suddenly shook, as though it were a toy in the hands of a giant. Bigman fell, rolling painfully until he hit the corridor wall, only to see Doctor Berg hurrying ahead of him. Was she trying to get to Lucky before him? With a shout, Bigman got to his feet, knees protesting, and ran after her.

 

* * *

 

 

The station was in turmoil. Lights were going out, people were scurrying to and fro like ants, and alarms and robotic-sounding error messages were going off everywhere. Somewhere along the main corridor, Bigman entirely lost his way.

“Lucky!”

He had to be near the docking bay, somehow! He’d been running for what felt like hours. Doctor Berg was nowhere to be seen, and the viewscreens had all shut down. He was left in noisy, harrowing darkness.

“Lucky! Can you hear me!”

Why was it so hard to breathe? Every inhale seemed rougher than the next, his lungs burning. His legs were failing, and his chest ached. He was burning up. He had to sit down.

As Bigman collapsed against the side of a failing vending machine, its lights flickering on and off, he suddenly remembered.

“The… the marplum…”

Had he eaten it? He must have. Must have… he could feel the poison coursing through his body, leaving him weak and helpless.

He had failed.

The last thing he saw, as his brain gave up completely, was Lucky’s beautiful, serene face. What a way to go, he thought to himself, smiling. And then… nothing.

 

* * *

 

 

“Bigman?”

Light. Suddenly, there was light again. And a very familiar voice.

“Bigman, you did good. A real swell job.”

He had? He did? His eyes didn’t seem to be working right. He was in a bed - not his bunk on the Shooting Starr, not the one in their cabin on the Charon VI. Where was he?

“But you’ve got to wake up now, you hear me?”

Lucky’s voice. It sounded… sad?

“Please wake up.”

But he was awake! Couldn’t Lucky see that? Bigman looked down at his hand. There was a tube running from it to a stand by the bed, but just beside that, sat Lucky, his head in his own hands.

“John?”

It was hard to speak, for some reason. Bigman opened his mouth, but the only thing that came out was a weak “Lucky?”

“Oh, thank the stars.” And just like that, Lucky was embracing him. Bigman didn’t know what to do with himself, but happily, Lucky did. When their lips parted, he put Bigman back down again, like nothing had happened. Bigman’s head still being the mess it was, he wasn’t entirely sure anything had.

“What…” he asked, and Lucky hushed him.

“Don’t speak. Your lungs are still weak from the fire.”

“Fire?” What about the poison?

“Yes. The station was a mess by the time we finally managed to get back in. Luckily, there were no casualties.” He smiled, another one of those sad, barely there smiles.

Bigman tried to speak again, coughed, then managed “poison?”

Lucky’s eyes grew wide. “Oh. I thought you’d realized. There was never any poison.”

“But... why…” All the incidents with the crew! The Medievalists! And the marplums! And Lucky’s transmission, and the crash…

“It’s what happens,” Lucky said, gently, “when people lose faith in science. And one another. I spoke to the doctor on the base, and he told me that the few cases of what they thought to be poisoning, were few and far between. In fact, they had been dismissed as food poisoning, and no one would have thought more of it, under normal circumstances. It was only as nervous colonists started talking about it, and reading up on conspiracy theories and Medievalist rhetoric, that it started to go full scale. Suddenly people were reporting poisonings left and right. They couldn’t find where the poison was coming from because _there was no poison_.”

“What… what then?”

“Oh, different things. Digestive system issues, like the first few cases. Then people stopped eating regularly, because they were too scared to trust the food, or they didn’t get enough nutrients because they refused to eat yeast, or they only ate certain foods, or all of the above. They got sick.” He shook his head. “All for no reason. No reason at all.”

“But…” It still didn’t make any sense! “The... the ship. Comms!”

“Yes. All of that too.” Lucky leaned in closer, eager to explain. “The station was running a skeleton crew. The base, too. People were on edge; you saw what happened in the cafeteria. A riot breaking out, just because one man thought he saw another add something to his food! Malnourished, on edge and working too many shifts, of course the crew got sloppy. That’s why my connection went out, and why the shuttle pilot collapsed. Yes,” he added, when Bigman’s eyes widened, “that’s what happened. We managed to get it under control, but only just. And like I said, when we got back…” He cringed. “Well, you saw. Fire. Malfunctions everywhere. And the oxygen dropping dangerously. That’s what got you.”

Bigman rolled his eyes. Of course! He should have realized. Oxygen! And him a farmboy, used to a dangerous atmosphere. He’d laugh, if even just breathing didn’t feel so painful. That would do it, all right. It might even make you hallucinate.

“Bigman?” Lucky frowned. “Are you all right?”

But Bigman couldn’t stop trying to laugh, coughing and wheezing until Lucky nearly called a nurse again.

 

* * *

 

 

“I still think it’s a bit of an ugly looking planet.”

Lucky cleared his throat, busy at the console. They were safely back on Earth, reviewing the data from the case. On screen was Pluto and Charon, endlessly circling one another.

“I know,” Bigman said, “I know. But it’s like I always say; size shouldn’t matter.”

“Is that what you always say?” Lucky barely looked up.

“If it’s not, I should be.” Bigman walked over, and put a hand on his shoulder. “Remember what you told me, back on the station?”

Lucky’s eyes fluttered shut, just barely. “What?”

“About Pluto and Charon. Their barycenter. How they orbit one another.”

“Yes?” They were close now. Not looking at one another.

“Well, it seems to me, it’s like what happened on the station, isn’t it. I’ve been thinking a lot about that. See, I think you’re right. I think both of them are important. I think they need one another. But I also think,” and here, he leaned down, lips to Lucky’s ear, “that they need to trust one another. And talk. Or the whole thing might blow up.”

Lucky stared at him. “Poison.”

“Just so,” Bigman answered. “I’d like to kiss you, I think.”

“I don’t think I’d like to kiss you,” Lucky replied, grimly.

“O… oh.”

“I know.”

It was hard to say, in the end, which of them was the moon, and which the planet around which the other circled. But, as Bigman liked to think of it, certainly now, with Lucky’s lips flush against his, it was probably both.


End file.
